


The Dauphin

by Ofb23



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Attempted Kidnapping, Gen, dauphin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-01 17:49:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5215028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ofb23/pseuds/Ofb23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An attempted kidnapping on the Dauphin forces d'Artagnan into action.<br/>First story posted here! cross posted to fanfiction.net.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Attempt

The Dauphine

Chaos reigned.

Shots were fired and returned, the clash of steel on steel, the cries and shouts of many men, the acrid smell of fear and gunpowder filling the air. D’Artagnan let it all wash over him, drawing in desperate lungful’s of air as he made sure the three men at his feet weren’t getting up anytime soon. He took a moment to orientate himself in the chaos of the unexpected battle. A long summer’s afternoon peace had been shattered by a large group of men, heavily armed, ordered and trained, frightening in the sheer intensity. He could see that the king and queen were safe, surrounded by a group of musketeers close to the royal tent, Treville and Athos amongst them, fending off the last of the men near them. He quickly found Aramis and Porthos, still fighting over to his left at the far end of the pageant field, closer to their Majesties than d’Artagnan who had been patrolling on the east, across the pageant area and away from them. The fighting was gradually calming, the well trained musketeers and king’s soldiers gaining the upper hand.

The sudden series of explosions that rocked the field caught everyone by surprise, men and body parts suddenly falling from the sky, d’Artagnan finding himself on his back, blinking at the sky with no knowledge of how he had got there. The silence was sudden, complete and deeply perturbed him; a ringing in his ear taking residence telling him how close he was to the explosion. He slowly shifted up onto his elbows, feeling the deep ache from the shock wave as he tried to look around.

Smoke, thick and bellowing, making him cough blocked his view. He felt slow, like the smoke was more solid than it should be and causing him to move sluggishly. A scream interrupted the ringing, sounding distant and faraway. D’Artagnan managed to turn his head, seeing the governess crying in alarm, her look away from the pageant and on the trees, the toddler Dauphin wailing in her arms. Trying to find the Dauphin’s guard, d’Artagnan finally saw the 2 Red Guard, swords out, looking confused as they scanned the area. Moving his head more, he could see movement in the trees and understood the governess’s alarm. This was never an attempt to get the king and queen; the fighting, the explosions were all distraction to get to the Dauphin.

Clarity was beginning to return, noise coming in and out between the ceaseless ringing. Adrenaline kicked in, blanking pain and giving force to the movement, propelling him with intent upwards and through the clearing smoke. The musketeer horses were trained so they hadn’t scattered with the explosions, and d’Artagnan ran for one, not caring whose horse he jumped on. He geed up the horse, the colt responding immediately to his command and running. He could see the men sneaking closer, the 2 Red Guard moving to intercept their path to the crying governess and he dug his heels in more, knowing he had to get there first. The governess, tears still streaming down her face saw him approaching, and with a wit that d’Artagnan wasn’t sure she would have, turned to him, the small toddler held out to him.

D’Artagnan barely dared to slow down, reaching down and snagging the toddler, deliberately blanking from his mind that he just grasped the future king of France with one hand whilst cantering on horseback, and that he had likely just left his governess to die.

He headed right. Behind him, the explosions which had proved such effective distractions blocked his path back to their majesties and the safety of the rest of the musketeers. He had no way of knowing if there was more, and couldn’t risk riding through smoke too thick to see if anyone lurked within. He’d already seen the would-be kidnappers jumping into the saddles to follow as he veered right heading to the lower edge of the forest, hoping to disappear amongst the dense foliage.

The trees cloaked him immediately, forcing him to slow to not much more than a walk to avoid riding into a tree. He headed deep, not knowing if there were more men within the forest, or how many were on horseback following him. In his arms, the young prince held onto his jacket with a desperate grip, his head buried within the cape d’Artagnan wore, his shoulders regularly shuddering but he was mercifully quiet. D’Artagnan kept an arm around him, the other hand steady on the reigns, as his desperate thoughts sought a way clear of this.

As his hearing cleared more, he could hear the distance sound of horses’ hooves through the forest. They would catch him; there was no time to hide his trail, or set a fake one. He was heading away from Versailles palace; out of necessity, of course, but he was heading away from the obvious place of safety.

And he was alone.

With the Dauphin.

He allowed himself one moment to flounder in the sheer impossible-ness of the situation before getting busy with a plan.

He kept it simple. His head wanted to pound, his body wanted to ache but he wouldn’t let them complain at the moment. He could try and run; it was definitely one option but he didn’t know how long he could keep ahead of the pursuers.

Or he could turn and fight.

Running away had never felt natural to d’Artagnan. He’d never turned his back on a fight before, even though many times Athos said he should have done. This was one fight that was inevitable, though. And d’Artagnan could either plan for it, or he could allow himself to be caught on horseback with the heir to the French throne still in his arms.

Decision made, d’Artagnan brought the horse to a slow walk. ‘Your Highness?’ He asked the small toddler. He waited for the prince to look up at him, his eyes red and bloodshot and hopeful, staring up at him. D’Artagnan had to swallow for a moment before he could ask in a relatively normal voice ‘Have you ever played hide and seek?’

**

The three bandits that brought their horses to a screeching halt certainly looked surprised when they happened upon the musketeer, off horseback and facing them with a rapier in one hand and a short sword in the other.

They dismounted, one of them with a pistol in hand, the other two armed with swords. ‘Well, well, well.’ The oldest of the three, and the shortest by a head brandished the gun with relish, obviously enjoying the whole spectacle. ‘A musketeer. All alone. Where’s your pauldron gone? Lost it in the forest?’

D’Artagnan let the words wash over him without reacting.

‘Tell us where the Dauphin is, and we’ll make it quick.’

‘Quick is so overrated.’ D’Artagnan said with a grim smile. ‘Some things are better slow.’

‘Believe me, musketeer, when it comes to death, it is not overrated.’

‘Unlike your ego.’

‘Where is the Dauphin?’

‘Not here.’ D’Artagnan said dismissively.

The pistol whipped around, the shot coming loose in anger, d’Artagnan easily dancing away from the close quarter shot, hearing it thud into a tree. He took the advantage, knowing that it would take too long for the bandit to reload, getting in a strike with the sword, cutting a deep welt into the man’s sword hand before stepping quickly round and parrying with the short sword the rapier strike of the man on his left.

One against three was never an easy fight but d’Artagnan could claim some experience. Often he’d gone up against The Three Inseparables in what they’d called training, and he’d called it having fun at his expense. D’Artagnan kept his movements economical, keeping his feet moving but keeping the fight contained in one small movement area, allowing the three to come at him, naturally restricting their movements and not allowing them all to come at him at once. He didn’t have time to think, to plan the moves, could only allow his body to naturally go through the motions that he knew so well.

He lost his short sword, implanted in the heart of one of the bandits; a worthy price to pay to decrease their number by a third. He took several hits, the pain lost in the adrenaline. He eventually got into a position to plunge his sword into another, quickly detracting it but not in time to stop the leader, who had mostly let the other two carry the fight, from tripping him, bringing the tip of his sword to rest at d’Artagnan’s exposed throat, standing firmly on his sword arm to keep it still. ‘Tell me where the Dauphin is.’

‘I told you, he’s not here.’ D’Artagnan said with difficulty, desperate not to swallow and accidently cut himself. He tried, unsuccessfully, to wrestle his arm free; the bandit grounding his heel into his arm till d’Artagnan couldn’t help the cry that left his lips.

‘There’s more where that came from.’ The bandit said, leaning down so he knew he had d’Artagnan’s full attention. ‘Now tell me where the Dauphin is.’

‘Never.’

The bandit ground his heel in more, carefully scoring a line with the tip of his sword across d’Artagnan’s exposed throat, the cut stinging madly, the intent perfectly clear. ‘Where’s the boy?’ He hissed.

D’Artagnan muttered something.

‘What was that?’ the bandit leant down towards him, the pressure lifting on his arm slightly. D’Artagnan muttered again, drawing the bandit further down in his desperation to hear of the Dauphin’s location. D’Artagnan willed himself into patience, knowing he had to time it perfectly. He spoke a little louder, the bandit desperate enough to finally move the sword away from his throat. D’Artagnan didn’t pause, lifting his body in one, knocking his head straight into the bandit’s nose with as much force as he could muster.

Warm blood spurted over his face from the bandit’s broken nose. The howl echoed in the trees, causing birds to take flight. D’Artagnan’s vision dimmed briefly, the ring returning to his ears as he fought to stay conscious, knowing now was not the time to sink into oblivion. He managed to get to his feet, staggering only slightly as he turned on the bandit who had fallen to his knees. A swift kick to the head had him headfirst into a tree, knocking the bandit unconscious.

For a moment it was all d’Artagnan could do to stand, swaying in the sudden silence, swiping at the stinging cut on his neck, pleased to see that there wasn’t much blood. He was finding it difficult to comprehend that he lived still. More importantly, the bandits had not discovered the Dauphin. Thinking on the young boy, d’Artagnan couldn’t be anything but impressed that the young toddler had remained silent throughout the fight.

He’d hidden him in the hollow of a tree about 20 meters from where he had stood to wait, the tree in his eyesight and behind the bandits. A risky strategy, but it had worked. The bandits, as d’Artagnan hoped, had never thought to look behind them.

As he walked back to the tree, d’Artagnan wondered on the young prince. He saw him around the palace from time to time, but rarely had anything to do with him. Mainly he was seen with his governess, kept away from the spot light of official royal duties.

He hadn’t known what to expect when he had lowered the boy down into the base of the tree. The young prince had clung to his jacket, not letting him rise. In all honesty, d’Artagnan did consider hiding with him, covering them both up and hoping for the best. But d’Artagnan knew that they would be discovered in a heartbeat, that he couldn’t hide them well enough that even a stupid kidnapper would stop looking. So he’d gently removed the little hands, gripping them with his instead and forcing the young boy away enough to look into his eyes. ‘You’re going to hide in here.’ He had said, even as a sob had escaped the toddler.

The toddler’s expressive brown eyes had watered, and he clung to d’Artagnan, trying to move back into the perceived safety of his arms. ‘You’re going to hide, and I’m going to count to 100 and come and find you.’ D’Artagnan said, keeping his voice firm and full of cheer that he didn’t feel. ‘I’m going to cover you with my cloak and some leaves to hide you better. We want you to win right?’

The young boy looked at him solemnly, lower lip trembling. ‘We’re going to win!’ D’Artagnan said enthusiastically, and finally the young prince nodded and tried to produce a trembling smile. ‘You’re going to be as quiet as a mouse, and then no one will find you.’ D’Artagnan said cheerfully.

‘Mouse!’ The young prince suddenly piped up.

‘Exactly, quiet as a mouse. Can you do that?’

Another nod, but much more convincing this time.

Thinking quickly, d’Artagnan let go of the toddler’s hand, and quickly unstrapped the pauldron on his shoulder, handing it over. ‘You’re going to look after this, ok?’ The prince grasped it in one hand, still looking solemnly up at d’Artagnan. ‘If someone comes looking for you, and they’re wearing one, that’s ok.’ The young prince had let go of both of d’Artagnan’s hands now, taken hold of the pauldron with both hands, tracing the indentations in the leather. ‘Sire, you are only to come out if you hear me, or see another man wearing one of these.’ D’Artagnan repeated ‘Do you understand?’

The young boy had looked solemnly up at him then did something that d’Artagnan didn’t think he’d ever forget. ‘Mukteer’ He’d proclaimed with a smile.

‘Exactly.’ D’Artagnan said, returning the smile. ‘You’ll look after my pauldron for me?’

‘Mukteer.’ The boy said with another smile.

‘Yes. Now you must keep silent. Completely silent.’

Then he’d buried the future king of France in the hollowed out base of the tree. He’d tucked him under the cape, then smeared it quickly with leaves and mud to try and camouflage it. Under a cursory glance it blended in, but more than that and d’Artagnan knew it would be easily discovered.

He pulled the cape free now, scattering mud and leaves, finding the small boy almost exactly where he’d left him, pauldron grasped in his hand, staring up at d’Artagnan with wide, fearful eyes.

D’Artagnan briefly wondered what he looked like now. ‘It’s ok, sire, it’s just me, just d’Artagnan.’

The boy looked at him doubtfully. ‘It’s just me. D’Artagnan.’

‘D’at.’ The boy finally repeated. ‘Mukteer.’

‘Exactly!’

‘D’at!’ The boy launched himself into d’Artagnan’s arms, almost toppling him. D’Artagnan couldn’t help but smile. ‘You did very well.’

‘I won!’ The boy proclaimed, his voice muffled where his head was buried.

‘Yes you did. You won. Come on sire, before they start missing you.’ He moved to take back his pauldron but two small hands grasped it firmly. ‘Ok, you can carry that.’

‘Mine!’

‘Not quite.’

‘Mukteer!’ D’Artagnan found he could still laugh as he got to his feet, the Dauphin in his arms, wrapping his cape around the young boy to fight against the cooling evening breeze. The horse, Porthos’ d’Artagnan had realised when he’d dismounted and finally looked at it properly, stood not far off, grazing the floor. D’Artagnan moved to put the Dauphin on the horses’ back, but the young toddler bodily flung himself back towards d’Artagnan, clinging to his leather jacket, the pauldron digging into d’Artagnan’s neck making him hiss slightly. ‘It’s ok. I’m coming too.’ D’Artagnan said. The young prince replied by clinging tighter. ‘Ok then.’ D’Artagnan let go of the boy to grasp the reigns one handed, mounting the horse not nearly as gracefully as normal as he adjusted for the young prince in his arms.

The small boy wiggled in his arms, clinging to him in fear at the sudden change in elevation. ‘This is Porthos’ horse.’ D’Artagnan told him quietly, adjusting the prince enough so that he could kick the horse into a steady walk. ‘He’s called Rollo.’ The small head lifted, two curious brown eyes regarded him carefully before looking hesitantly at the horse, the hands not relenting on his jacket. ‘He’s massive, but he’s gentle.’ D’Artagnan carried on softly. ‘He’ll carry us home now.’

‘Mama.’ The boy spoke softly, his bottom lip wobbling softly. ‘Yes, we’ll go and find your mama. And your papa.’ D’Artagnan said quietly. He briefly allowed his thoughts to stray to what he would be returning to. During the ride through the woods, bandits on their tail, he’d been distracted trying to come up with a way to keep the Dauphin alive. Now his mind wandered to the people he’d left behind at the pageant. The king and queen: the young boy’s parents. His best friends and brothers in arms.

His wife.

He had not seen Constance after the fighting had started, had trusted that her position next to the queen meant she was safe with Treville and Athos. Now his mind whirled with worry that he was returning to them all dead. He looked down at the young prince, and knew he couldn’t show his fears now, that the young prince was reliant on him to get him home. ‘Do you know, Rollo is scared of mice?’ D’Artagnan started, telling the young prince tales of the horses to keep him entertained on the long walk back.

Eventually the prince had turned in his arms, still pressed close into the musketeer, but growing brave enough to let go of his hold and pat the horses’ mane. D’Artagnan showed him how to hold on to the reins of the horse, though the prince still refused to let go of the pauldron so could only use one hand. D’Artagnan briefly wondered if he’d ever get the emblem back again. The small boy relaxed enough to start chatting about the horse, d’Artagnan only understanding about 1 word in 5 but joining in where he could.

Night fell as d’Artagnan guided the horse back into the open ground, the other side of the forest from where the pageant had been held. D’Artagnan was glad he’d accompanied Athos yesterday on a ride around the palace grounds. Athos had wanted to be alone, d’Artagnan knew, but he’d used the excuse of only visiting the countryside palace once and then very briefly to accompany the older man and learn the grounds. Athos would never admit it, but by the end he had seemed much more relaxed and d’Artagnan had learned more about the lay of the lands. He recognised the open fields now, the moonlight giving them an ethereal glow.

The young prince had fallen silent, and d’Artagnan looked down at him now with the improved light. The young boy was snuggled into him, grasping hold of d’Artagnan’s arm that was around him with one hand, the pauldron still held tight in his other hand, and was blinking sleep filled eyes as he gazed around. D’Artagnan smiled at the sight as he kicked the horse up a gear, feeling weary and the pain he’d been ignoring till then gradually growing more forceful in its desire for attention.

Most of it was the ache from being forced off his feet in the explosion, but a few stings reminded him of the glancing blows he’d caught from the swords, the throbbing in his arm reminding him of the attempt of the kidnapper to snap it with his boot. He hadn’t succeeded, for which d’Artagnan was grateful, but it ached without mercy now. But every injury paled into insignificance when he thought of the prince, whole and unharmed (if a little dirty).


	2. Homecoming

Finally the palace came into sight. The young prince had been dozing, but seemed to sense the relief d’Artagnan felt at the sight, waking up and grasping hold of d’Artagnan’s arm again. ‘Almost home.’ D’Artagnan told him quietly.

‘Mama!’ The boy agreed, straining forward against the arm that held him steady, bouncing suddenly in the saddle.

‘Yep. And something tells me they’re going to be very happy to see you!’ D’Artagnan, amongst all the other worries, found himself slightly concerned that he would be accused of putting the prince in unnecessary danger. He couldn’t think of anything else he could have done to protect the prince from certain harm, but sometimes His Majesty couldn’t seem to think with the same logic.

D’Artagnan didn’t go to the front of the palace. He stayed hidden in the shadows of the grounds, working his way around to the side, to a small servant entrance, ever wary of who might be waiting for them in the palace. The palace was shrouded in dark, enough that d’Artagnan couldn’t make out the identities of the sentry guards at the entrance from a distance. D’Artagnan didn’t want to risk getting close enough to see faces, knowing that it would be too late if they were foe rather than friend. The entrance led to the servant’s warren of back corridors that skirted through the palace, allowing the servants to move without detection by the royals and nobles in residence. D’Artagnan knew the general way though had to turn back several times from a dead end or a closed off room. The prince was mainly silent in his arms, though he did giggle when d’Artagnan again found himself at a dead end, sighing deeply. ‘Think that’s funny do you?’ D’Artagnan whispered.

The response was a bigger giggle, and d’Artagnan found himself smiling, reaching down to tickle the young toddler. The toddler giggled harder as he squirmed away. The sound of distant footsteps stilled d’Artagnan, and silenced the giggles in a heartbeat. D’Artagnan shrank back against the wall, automatically transferring the young lad to his left arm, resting his hand on his rapier as he waited. The footsteps passed without pausing, and d’Artagnan released the breath he didn’t realise he had been holding, smiling down when he noticed the fear that should never be present on a young boy’s face.

They walked in silence after that, d’Artagnan finally finding the right corridor that brought him out in front of the small reception room, favoured by the royal couple when they weren’t hosting formal events. Maybe he should have spent more time learning the lay out of the inside of the palace as well as the outside he mused as he quietly opened the door, checking the hall, and the soldier on guard outside the door from the relative safety of the doorway, only relaxing when he recognised Felix, a fellow musketeer.

Felix, on his part, couldn’t hide the relief when d’Artagnan walked out, the prince clinging to him still, ‘d’Artagnan, Your Highness! Am I glad to see you!’ And with a brief (and to d’Artagnan’s thoughts highly unnecessary) bow to the prince, who was hiding as best he could in d’Artagnan’s arms, he opened the door to announce. ‘They have returned!’

The sitting room had been silent and tense; broken by a small cry of relief d’Artagnan, and the young prince, recognised from Queen Anne. ‘My son!’

Everything was a whirlwind of activity from there. D’Artagnan crossed the room in large strides, taking the young boy directly to his mother, knowing he would never forget the look of relief and happiness that shone through the tears as Anne stammered her thanks, holding her son as hard as the boy now clung to her. ‘Mama!’

Anne buried her face in the young boy’s hair, d’Artagnan noticing the bits of leaves still stuck there and hoping they would be forgiven. ‘Thank you!’ The queen looked up at d’Artagnan, ‘Thank you!’

The king stepped forward, and d’Artagnan was surprised to see unshed tears in his eyes as he also embraced his son and wife. D’Artagnan took a few steps back, finally looking around to find Constance, standing on the queen’s left, eyes full of tears, smiling happily when d’Artagnan looked her way. A hand clamped down on his shoulder, and d’Artagnan looked around at Athos, smiling slightly, Aramis and Porthos coming to stand on his other side, also clapping him on his shoulder, exchanging relieved grins. Treville didn’t move from where he had been stood by the king’s side, but he nodded his approval.

D’Artagnan finally allowed himself to relax slightly, only for the king to suddenly look his way ‘D’Artagnan!’

D’Artagnan inaudibly gulped as he stepped forward, bowing deeply, feeling his muscles disapprove of being forced to stretch in such a way. The king had stood, using the platform to gain height over his subjects and making him appear much bigger. D’Artagnan kept his look steady even as his heart raced, the king simply watching him for a moment. ‘The governess told us of your heroic act to save our son.’ He finally said, d’Artagnan immediately glancing to the governess, alive and well, he thought certain he’d doomed. ‘I can only thank you for saving our son with your quick thinking.’

D’Artagnan simply bowed again. ‘I was fortunate to be able to do so, your majesty.’

‘I hope you have not sustained injury?’

‘Nothing of consequence, Sire.’ D’Artagnan may have imagined it, but there was a sound of an aborted snort from Aramis’s direction.

‘Good, good. You had us worried, but to see my son, whole and…’ the king looked closely at the prince for a moment who was happily sat in his mother’s embrace ‘only slightly dirty,’ the king said, brushing some leaves out of his hair making the toddler squirm and frown at his dad, ‘is a great relief.’

‘No!’ The prince’s indignant cry drew everyone’s attention away from the King. ‘Mine! Mukteer!’ It appeared the Queen had tried to relieve the prince of d’Artagnan’s pauldron with as much success as d’Artagnan had had. The queen looked up at d’Artagnan, amusement washing away the pain he’d seen earlier. ‘That’s d’Artagnan’s.’ the young queen told her son.

The young prince looked up at d’Artagnan, grinning widely at him. ‘D’At!’ He said in delight. ‘Mukteer.’

‘Yes, d’Artagnan is the musketeer- he needs that back.’ The queen said patiently.

‘No! Me mukteer!’ The pauldron was clasped even closer.

The queen looked apologetically at d’Artagnan. ‘I think you may have lost this for good.’

‘No matter, your majesty. It is but a small price to pay.’ D’Artagnan said with a grin; he’d already resigned himself to the fact that he wasn’t going to get it back easily. He glanced at Treville, wondering if he could simply get a new one or if he’d have to pay for it. Or win another dual. His arm did feel a bit empty without its usual covering.

**

They were dismissed not long afterward. Bowing as the royal party, the young prince still hugging the pauldron tightly, exited, d’Artagnan looked up enough to catch Constance’s eye. Being at the summer palace meant the two were apart more than normal, even husbands and wives were not allowed to share rooms when they were the Queen’s advisor and the King’s musketeer. But they tried to catch up in the late evenings after the Queen dismissed Constance, or first thing in the morning before most of the palace awoke. He silently asked if she was ok, the question in her eyes too; they both nodded, before Constance was swept away.

The musketeers had rooms in the servant’s quarter, forced to pair up as there weren’t enough rooms with the whole of the royal entourage there for the summer. D’Artagnan’s arms felt uncharacteristically empty as they walked, having grown used to the weight of the prince. His step felt lighter though, even as his body went on full out protest at having its hurts ignored for so long. He felt battered, hungry and tired, and wondered at the chance of being allowed to quietly eat and go to bed. Glancing at his friends, who had quite deliberately surrounded him, he wasn’t sure of the likelihood.

D’Artagnan still allowed himself to hope a little though they would let him just go to sleep as Athos herded him into the room they were sharing. They were somewhat dashed when they were, predictably, followed in by Aramis and Porthos. D’Artagnan largely ignored them, knowing it would be useless to try and persuade them to leave him alone. Instead he made himself busy, taking off his weapon’s belt and leaving it on the chair along with his jacket. He couldn’t help the hiss as he took off the jacket, feeling the pull again on the scratches. He crossed to the stand with a bowl and jug of water, pleased to find it was hot, taking pleasure in washing the grime off his face and hands. Aramis was there when he came up from dunking his whole head, handing him a towel. ‘Better?’

‘All I could smell was mud and smoke.’ D’Artagnan commented with a nod.

‘Bet the Dauphin is also being dunked as we speak.’ Aramis joked.

D’Artagnan nodded, glancing at Aramis as he dried his hair. It always came to him at strange times; the proverbial elephant in the room, the secret affair between Aramis and the queen that had resulted in a royal birth. He wondered how Aramis had coped with the missing prince; if he allowed himself even a small moment to contemplate that it was his son that was missing. He blinked and shoved the thought away. He couldn’t allow even his thoughts to consider the question; the prince was the king’s son, the heir to the French throne. It was all that mattered.

‘You have a cut on your neck.’ Aramis added bluntly. He moved to presumably pull at d’Artagnan’s shirt, but d’Artagnan automatically shifted away before he could stop himself.

‘I’ve had worse shaving.’

‘You shave?’ Came Porthos’s predictable teasing question. D’Artagnan shot him a look.

‘And there’s blood on your shirt.’ Aramis carried on, not allowing the distraction.

‘It’s not mine.’ He said, the immediate disagreement from Aramis interrupted by a knock on the door.

Athos answered, unsurprised to find Constance in the doorway. D’Artagnan didn’t wait for Aramis or the others to speak, but slipped past Athos, firmly closing the door in Athos’s face.

Athos turned back to Aramis and Porthos, a glint of humour in his eye when he noticed Aramis’s affronted look. ‘You should know by now it is never that easy.’ He commented to Aramis.

Aramis smile turned somewhat ruthful in agreement. For as long as d’Artagnan had been with them, getting d’Artagnan to admit to any injury had proved a struggle. D’Artagnan did not like having any care placed over them. They thought it would change over time, but the only difference now was that it was often Constance who was left to fight with d’Artagnan over his injuries. They all knew now that d’Artagnan didn’t do it on purpose; an automatic fight or flight response that was much too ingrained. They could usually eventually get to the injuries through a careful dance that Aramis, ironically, was usually the most skilled at. ‘It’s been a long day.’ Aramis said in excuse.

‘Maybe Constance will have more luck.’ Porthos commented, moving to the table and tray of food that had been delivered earlier. ‘Might as well eat whilst we wait for them to finish.’

‘Make sure you leave some for d’Artagnan.’ Athos commented to Porthos as he sat opposite, reaching for the wine. It had, indeed, been a very long day.

**

They didn’t speak at first, just held each other tightly, each of them desperate to feel the other close, words unnecessary at that moment. The sound of footsteps reluctantly forced them apart, and Constance lifted a hand, brushing a thumb over the cut at his neck before moving to cup his head, prodding gently on a quickly forming bruise. ‘It’s nothing.’ D’Artagnan said, unable even in his wife’s hands to stop the natural reaction to move away from the gentle touch. Constance knew him well, let him for now, her look going to the blood spattered shirt instead. ‘It’s not mine.’ Constance raised an eyebrow at the proclamation. ‘Mostly, anyway.’ D’Artagnan corrected himself.

‘Aramis should have a look.’ Constance said gently, catching d’Artagnan’s bruised face in between her two hands, bringing his look round directly to hers. ‘Please.’ There was a slight hitch to her breath, but she wouldn’t shatter. It wasn’t what d’Artagnan needed from her tonight. ‘I have to get back to the Queen; I just wanted to make sure you really were alright.’ She went up on tiptoe, directing a soft kiss to the bruise, pleased when d’Artagnan didn’t flinch away. ‘Promise me you will let them look after you.’

D’Artagnan used his own hands to lower Constance down so her lips met his. He stumbled slightly as the heady emotion caught up with him all of a sudden, an elbow hitting the door enough to bring him back to the present. ‘I love you.’ He mumbled against her lips.

Constance nodded, both of their looks going to the side as more footsteps sounded. ‘I have to go.’ She said reluctantly. D’Artagnan nodded, kissing her hand before allowing her to step away. ‘Tomorrow morning?’

‘See you there.’ It was the best time they had found to be together; early morning before the palace stirred, sitting in the courtyard beyond the kitchen. Neither was willing to be found in a compromising position but just being with each other for those precious minutes was enough. It had to be for the next few weeks.

D’Artagnan waited till Constance rounded the far end of the corridor before letting his head fall back on the door, feeling sudden exhaustion press down on him, making him feel oddly weightless and heavy as concrete at the same time. He wasn’t sure of the time, but knew it wasn’t particularly late; d’Artagnan felt like he’d been awake for days.

He eventually dragged up enough energy to reach for the door handle, but the door opened inward before he could turn it, Aramis reacting quickly enough to stop him tumbling to the floor. ‘That’s what I like to see, people falling at my feet.’ He joked, smiling broadly at d’Artagnan’s glare. ‘Madame d’Artagnan couldn’t stay?’ He added, checking the corridor somewhat unnecessarily.

‘She had to get back to the Queen.’ He no longer blushed when Constance was referred to by title, but it still gave him a thrill of pleasure to hear it said aloud. He straightened himself properly, trying to shake off the weight of exhaustion. Spying the food miraculously still on the tray by Porthos, d’Artagnan moved towards it. ‘And I’m not that injured.’ He threw over his shoulder. ‘A few cuts and bruises, nothing of consequence.’ He added, taking a seat and reaching out for the cold cuts and cheese, suddenly remembering how hungry he was.

Aramis came and sat opposite him, amusement dancing on his features. ‘Constance made you promise to be checked out.’ He surmised.

D’Artagnan reluctantly looked up, nodded slightly.

‘Better let me look then.’

‘But there’s nothing to be done.’

‘You don’t want me to report back to your wife of your refusal.’ Aramis pointed out.

‘That’s low, Aramis.’ D’Artagnan said bitterly. ‘I saved the Dauphin. Can’t I just go to bed?’

His voice was dangerously close to a whine; d’Artagnan was too tired to care.

Aramis held the smirk in check with difficulty as he shook his head. D’Artagnan’s glare still heated up. Looking around, he saw he wouldn’t get any support from Athos and Porthos and found himself instead weighing up defying his wife vs letting Aramis have a look at his injuries. It was a close run thing and he also knew Aramis would tell Constance. And that Constance would no doubt ask the Musketeer even if Aramis didn’t offer it straight up.

He sighed inwardly. Logically, he knew that Aramis simply cared for him. Just as Constance did when she insisted on cleaning up or tending his wounds. And perhaps that was the problem. D’Artagnan was very bad at being cared for. He had never had it thrust on him before coming to Paris, and never knew how to handle it, or be comfortable with it since. Avoiding it was always easier in his mind, despite knowing, logically, that he needed it at times (he would never agree that he needed it all the time).

‘Where’s the blood from?’ Porthos spoke into the silence, indicating with the cup in his hand d’Artagnan’s shirt before taking a gulp of the sweet red wine.

‘One of the would be kidnappers.’ D’Artagnan said, looking down briefly before looking up at Porthos. Porthos gestured for him to complete the story. ‘Headbutted him, broke his nose.’ He elaborated.

‘What happened?’ Athos finally spoke, seeing that d’Artagnan had relaxed slightly as Aramis hadn’t pounced on him.

‘He had me on the floor by’

Athos interrupted ‘from the beginning.’

So around mouthfuls of food and sips of wine d’Artagnan recounted the story. He kept it straight and logical, as if he was reporting to Treville rather than discussing the events with his friends. Athos let him for now, seeing that it further relaxed d’Artagnan, though he kept glancing Aramis’s way to check the man hadn’t moved with him unaware. Aramis had done that, but only once. They struggled to check d’Artagnan’s injuries for a long time afterwards.

‘What happened with you guys?’ D’Artagnan added at the end.

‘Chaos, mainly. We weren’t sure what was happening, couldn’t see past the explosions for a long time: the smoke was too thick. Bandits kept appearing out of it: I’m guessing they were distraction to stop us witnessing the kidnap attempt.’ Athos said.

‘Weren’t even sure what had happened to you and the Dauphin till the gov’ness told us.’ Porthos added.

‘Treville ordered men to check the palace: we locked everyone down as best we could in the pageant tent till they came back with the all clear. Then we took their majesties back there.’ Athos continued.

‘Treville also sent men into the forest, but we didn’t know which way you had gone, and there was too much ground to search effectively before the light began to go.’ Aramis continued the story. A fleeting look of frustration visible on his face told d’Artagnan that there had been more than one argument around the point.

‘So we waited at the palace, hoped you’d managed to find a safe place to hide out at least.’ Athos continued. ‘Instead we find out you fought the bandits and brought yourself back.’

‘Didn’t want to find myself accused of kidnapping the Dauphin.’ D’Artagnan tried to joke, but they were all aware of how inconsistent the king could be, especially when he was stressed. ‘Plus we were both hungry.’ He added with a small grin as he gestured his empty plate.

‘Come on.’ Aramis pointedly looked down at the arm d’Artagnan had unconsciously started rubbing. Caught red handed, d’Artagnan’s hand stilled, looking up at Aramis before he looked down at the arm, finally pulling the sleeve up to reveal the bruising hidden beneath.

‘It’s just a bruise.’

Looking at the deep purple mess midway up d’Artagnan’s forearm Porthos raised an incredulous eyebrow in his direction. ‘Some bruise.’

Aramis nodded, gesturing for d’Artagnan to bring his arm closer. D’Artagnan noticeably hesitated, but he did hold it towards him. D’Artagnan remained silent as Aramis prodded the deep bruising, checking that there was no breakages underneath. Determining that it was likely just going to hurt for a while, Aramis looked up assessing. The facial bruises were obvious, but as d’Artagnan showed no hint of a head injury Aramis wasn’t particularly worried about them. He was more worried about everything that could be hidden away. They had all quickly learnt that d’Artagnan was very good at not showing pain to his injuries.

Athos nudged d’Artagnan, none too subtly, but d’Artagnan obeyed, too weary all of a sudden to fight the inevitable. He stood up, stepping into the light when Aramis pulled him that way, divesting himself of the blood stained, ruined shirt. D’Artagnan, for once, hadn’t exactly been lying when he said it was mostly cuts and bruises. A few cuts, long clotted over and too shallow to require much tending proved that not all the blood had been the kidnappers. Aramis shuddered briefly at the risks d’Artagnan had taken to keep safe the future monarch. To keep his son safe.

With gentle fingers, Aramis probed the bruising, checking for breakages in ribs, for underlying tension that might speak of bruising deep in the tissues. But though d’Artagnan’s chest and abdomen was littered with bruises, nothing seemed too bad, and Aramis was soon pushing d’Artagnan to the bed, a move d’Artagnan was more than willing to comply with. Finding himself lying down, sleep quickly dragging at him, he only tensed slightly as Aramis began to spread a sweet smelling ointment on the worst of the injuries.

**

He woke to darkness and the soft snores from the other bed. Athos lay flat on his bed, arms and legs straight, as efficient in sleep as he was awake. D’Artagnan knew one whisper of his name, though, Athos would be up and ready to fight in a heartbeat. Athos would never drink enough to cause a hangover when on duty at the summer palace.

Seeing the first hints of dawn creeping through the un-shuttered windows, d’Artagnan rolled onto his side and sat up, biting back a hiss as abused muscles woke with the movement, leaving him feeling achy and stiff. Desire to see Constance far outweighed the pain, though, and d’Artagnan was soon quietly slipping out the door. Athos, of course, was well aware of d’Artagnan’s early morning meetings, but kept quiet, knowing that the forced separation when they were so close was hard for the young couple. As long as no rumours of inappropriate behaviour reached his ears, and d’Artagnan was on time for the pre-breakfast meeting with Treville he left the couple alone.

**

They were summoned at breakfast to their Majesty’s presence. Treville had explained to them that the King and Queen wanted to publically acknowledge d’Artagnan’s heroic actions from the day before, but did not want to make it public knowledge how close the group of kidnappers had come. Instead, they were seeking a private audience. D’Artagnan had tried to argue that he neither wanted nor needed private or public acknowledgement for doing his job, but the look Treville sent him told him he was being dense, and Aramis had advised him to “suck it up”.

So d’Artagnan stood with his three friends, resplendent in full uniform, minus his missing pauldron, feeling vaguely like a part of him was missing without it. He was certainly more presentable than the previous meeting, as was the Dauphin when the royal couple finally arrived, the young prince in the arms of his governess dressed in a little neat suit, his hair brushed and minus dirt or leaves. As soon as the Dauphin saw him, he wriggled free from his governess, running straight for the musketeer with a happy cry of “d’At!”

D’Artagnan, momentarily forgetting who he was in the company of swooped the young boy up into his arms, as pleased to see the happy smiling face as the little boy was to see him. An unsubtle clearing of a throat from the direction of Treville brought d’Artagnan’s attention back to the room, seeing that his fellow musketeers were in deep bows before their monarchs. Blushing lightly, d’Artagnan followed suite, the young prince still in his arms who was delighted at this sudden change in perspective of his parents as d’Artagnan shifted into a bow.

‘Rise, please.’ The king sounded amused, telling d’Artagnan this was probably the only day he would get away with such sloppy court manners. He didn’t dare look in Athos or Treville’s direction to see what they thought.

The prince in his arms clearly did not care at all for proper etiquette, excitedly shifting in d’Artagnan’s arms showing “d’At” his own small leather pauldron, crafted to fit the narrow shoulder. D’Artagnan admired the craftsmanship openly, looking up discreetly to see Constance had hold of his own pauldron; she waved it discreetly when he looked. He grinned broadly, as the prince exclaimed happily ‘me mukteer!’

‘Yes, Sire, I can see the fine uniform.’ D’Artagnan agreed.

‘D’Artagnan.’

D’Artagnan wrestled his attention from the young prince in his arms to His Majesty, watching with amusement. He stepped forward, nodding his head to acknowledge the king. ‘Yes sire.’

‘Your bravery, yesterday, deserves’

An impetuous cry of ‘D’AT!’ interrupted the king. The Dauphine bounced in d’Artagnan’s arms, hand tapping impatiently on his shoulder, trying to seize back the musketeer’s attention.

Torn, d’Artagnan glanced down at the young prince, who clearly was bored of any idea of allowing his father to make a speech and wanted the musketeer’s attention all to himself. D’Artagnan had to bite his cheek to not smile at how alike the prince and the king were in some regards.

‘Your father is speaking, Sire.’ D’Artagnan said in a not too quiet whisper.

The Dauphine looked over at his father, obviously wondering how much he could get away with doing, before looking at his mother who was looking highly amused by the whole show and wasn’t going to be any help. D’Artagnan thought he would try anyway. ‘Perhaps you want to sit with your mother?’

This clearly was not what the prince wanted at all, judging by the tightening of the arms holding him.

‘No! Mukteer!’ All pretence at any decorum in front of their Royal Highnesses was fast disappearing as those present found it harder and harder to keep a straight face, watching the strong, impulsive musketeer get beaten by a toddler.

‘Ok, you can stay with the musketeers.’ D’Artagnan said, his words immediately making the toddler bounce and smile. ‘But the first rule of being a musketeer is listening to the king.’ D’Artagnan added. He was sure the covered cough emanating from Porthos’s direction was a coincidence.

The toddler stilled at the words, eyes narrowing as he looked first at d’Artagnan, then round at the other musketeers who hastily straightened and returned their looks properly to the king, demonstrating proper behaviour for the young prince.

The young prince nodded, straightening in d’Artagnan’s arms and looking at his father. ‘Ok, me listen.’ He said, waving for his father to continue with such an air that d’Artagnan almost choked trying not to laugh. The queen chuckled, joined by the king.

‘Thank you son.’

‘Mukteer!’

‘Thank you, my most loyal musketeer.’ The king corrected himself. ‘As I was saying; d’Artagnan, your actions, yesterday, should be praised before a proper gathering, the prince’s return celebrated with a great banquet.’

D’Artagnan tried valiantly not to shudder just at the thought.

‘However, we do not wish to…advertise what happened.’

D’Artagnan was not as sad as the king appeared at this fact, but schooled his expression appropriately. The prince, watching him closely, attempted to mimic the solemn features, failing miserably.

‘Instead, the Queen and I wish to bestow on you the highest honour we could think of; we wish to offer you the position as the Dauphin’s personal guard.’

**

Author’s note Thank you for reading this short little adventure. I hope you enjoyed reading. And yes, I have left it deliberately open should I get inspired to continue! Reviews, as always, make my day!

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! Reviews, comments etc always welcome


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